


A Mean Sleep

by politic_x



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-21 00:31:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12445407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politic_x/pseuds/politic_x
Summary: Miranda comes across Andrea at a party three years after Paris and demands an explanation for her abrupt departure.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting this here. Written in 2010.

 

**"I cannot be awake for nothing looks to me as it did before, Or else I am awake for the first time, and all before has been a mean sleep." Walt Whitman**

 

The Editor in Chief of _Runway_ fashion magazine was listening to a rather interesting story being told to a very small group of people by a former White House correspondent. It wasn't lost on Miranda Priestly that she was the least important person in this small clique, which included a former President and an infamous CIA operative who, no less than two weeks ago, was thought to be dead. Miranda loved parties that the _real_ news-worthy attended, and she delighted in her lack of status at these events. She loved rubbing elbows with people who assassinated kings and started wars. She loved being hidden in plain sight amongst the _truly_ important. Which is why, when she sensed someone's eyes on her throughout the evening, it felt irritating and out of place here. But she shrugged off the unwanted attention without addressing it until later, when she had stayed longer than she intended, and most of the important crowd had thinned out.

Miranda was making her way through a clutch of CNN reporters not at all interested in her – _refreshing_ – when she felt the eyes on her again. If she were honest with herself, it was a memory sensation more than any kind of hypersensitivity on her part, because she knew before she saw her, that it was Andrea Sachs staring at her. She willed herself into anger, revived Paris and Andrea's sudden departure three years ago, and she stared the girl down with something that felt almost like rage. Andrea, who had been posing a kind smile, blanched, but stood her ground as Miranda marched over to where she was located at the outdoor bar.

"Hi Miranda," Andrea said. She offered a smile again, though it immediately wilted at Miranda's expression. "You look beautiful."

Miranda frowned. It had been difficult, she remembered now, to become irritated by Andrea, much less keep something as strong as anger fueled for very long. Particularly when the years were proving her correct; she had always thought Andrea's splendor was yet to come, and indeed she was becoming more beautiful with age. Perhaps thirty or thirty-five would be her zenith. "Andrea," she finally managed. "You look well."

Andrea's smile resuscitated. "I am, I guess, considering. How are you? How are Caroline and Cassidy?"

Ah yes, her superstar among assistants past and present, ignoring the superfluous to focus on the essential. A flash of retrovision – Andrea charming at the Valentino party, Andrea provocative in thigh-high Chanel boots, Andrea ebullient because she'd retrieved the impossible Harry Potter book, Andrea compassionate when Stephen filed for divorce. Andrea distraught before walking away from her. It was as if the years fell away. She could have seen Andrea this morning: the slender fingers could have handed her a cup of boiling Starbucks; the full lips could have given her a gentle smile.

"They're fine."

"They must be almost fourteen now. Wow. Are they sleeping all day and listening to horrible music and ignoring you yet?"

Miranda couldn't help but smirk. "Something like that."

"It's so great to see you," Andrea gushed, and she looked as if she really meant it. Her eyes sparkled warmly and she was smiling one of her brilliant smiles. "In person," Andrea amended. "I see you now and then on Page Six. You give them plenty to gossip about, don't you?" Then she literally bit down on her tongue, Miranda saw it sticking out a little, the pink tip, and the girl blushed.

"Well, you're as charming as ever," Miranda said drily. In fact, Andrea had always been quite the charmer. Miranda supposed it was the sincerity behind the incessant chatter. And perhaps the way Andrea focused when Miranda spoke to her, listening intently, gazing directly into her eyes as if it were just the two of them in a bubble, isolated from the rest of the world. Andrea was gazing directly into her eyes now, taking a sip of her drink. "What are you having?" Miranda asked the younger woman.

"Vodka tonic," Andrea said.

Miranda blinked.

"A little goes a long way with me," Andrea said. "Although not as far as it used to. I work so much sometimes I can't unwind, and so…" she tilted her glass toward Miranda. "Care for one?"

Miranda nodded, but she wasn't certain why; she had no intention of staying and chatting, of all things, though Andrea certainly had that same pull. "I'm surprised to see you here," Miranda said. "I don't recall you being one for…" She gestured at Andrea's dress. "Events that require fashionable attire."

"Work," Andrea smiled as she turned and ordered the drink. Her hair, possibly even longer now, fell down her slender back tousled and loose. She was wearing a vintage Chanel dress, which appeared both fashion forward and understated on her - not dated at all. Miranda found this satisfying; she'd somehow known this about Andrea, that she would do this to a classic dress – bring it to the current decade. It was quite becoming. "I've been following your career," Miranda admitted. "I'm surprised someone hasn't snagged you from _The Mirror_ yet."

"Well," Andrea said, handing Miranda her drink. "About that." Her eyes shone and she smiled widely. "That's why I'm here. I accepted a position at CNN tonight." Her eyes widened and she leaned forward conspiratorially. "And you're the very first to know."

Something stirred in Miranda, some longing kindled at Andrea's almost whispered words. "Congratulations. I knew you would blossom as soon as you escaped my clutches."

Andrea's face went from beaming to dejected in an instant. "Miranda," the girl said, her voice suddenly throaty, her eyes sad. "I'm so sorry-"

The girl's sudden change in expression was upsetting, and it put Miranda on the defensive. "No, no. Don't ruin a perfectly good evening with an apology you don't wish to say and I don't wish to hear."

"I do want to say it. I've been wanting to tell you-"

"Obviously," Miranda cut in. "It's quite apparent you've wanted to apologize. Three years, Andrea?" Her anger this time wasn't conjured.

Andrea flinched. "Do you know how hard it is to find words that mean 'I'm sorry I let you down like everyone else does, but I assure you, I've disappointed myself more than I can ever disappoint you'? And what kind of apology is that anyway?"

"Inadequate and self-centered. You left me in the middle of a very busy and painful week, and you did it spitefully. Are you glad you left? Was the disappointment in _yourself_ worth the dramatic flourish of dropping everything to get away as fast as you could so that you wouldn't turn into me?" The anger rushed away as soon as the words left Miranda's mouth, and she was left with that other thing, that thing that had been eating at her for three years.

Andrea's eyes grew large. "What?" she asked. "Miranda, I didn't leave because of … no, I wasn't – that wasn't… How could you think that? You know I worshipped you. Don't you?" She looked bewildered. "How could you think that?" Her hand ran over her forehead. "If you only knew how I … I _model_ myself on you. How I run up against someone tough that doesn't want to be interviewed and I go after him with the tenacity you would. How I ask myself what you would do if you were in my position on any given day, in any given situation. I can't believe you've thought all this time that I left because I was afraid of _becoming_ you. How _ironic_. I'm certain that I've come as far as I have by following your work ethic and – and …" She removed her hand, and the sadness on her face was plain. "If I could become a _shadow_ of you… that would be great success to me."

Miranda stared at her. She believed her; she had always believed Andrea, but she had been certain this was why she'd left. Three years she'd been upset by this. "Why did you leave, then?"

Andrea looked away. She drank the last from her glass. Looked at the ground. She would either lie, Miranda surmised, or she would withhold.

"I – I'd rather not say," Andrea finally said, slowly shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Miranda. You deserve the truth. I know it was a shitty thing for me to do, and I'm so sorry. I never wanted to treat you like that; I should have given you a notice. But you don't want to hear the truth, and I can't … I can't tell you."

Miranda sipped her vodka tonic and considered this. What wouldn't she want to hear? Andrea had fallen in love? Gotten pregnant? What bigger disappointment could there be? Had she betrayed her after all with that fellow, that Christian Thompson? Had Andrea been a part of the scheme to oust her from her editorial position at _Runway_? No, no, of course not; the girl had tried to warn Miranda as soon as she knew. But what would Andrea refuse to tell? "You must."

Panic gripped the young woman's face. "No, I can't."

Miranda had always been good at judging a person's weakness, and Andrea's was her compassion for others. Her compassion for Miranda. This is one reason it had hurt for Andrea to leave her in Paris. Such poor timing. "Andrea," she said quietly. "You said it yourself – I deserve the truth."

Andrea's gaze diverted to somewhere over Miranda's shoulder, and they were interrupted by someone Miranda had met earlier in the evening who was saying his goodbyes. Andrea tried to slip past them, tried to make an escape, but Miranda caught her hand and jerked her back, and continued holding her hand through the goodbyes to the gentleman. "You're trying to leave again," she said to the girl as soon as they were alone.

The look on Andrea's face was priceless. "Yeah, I was. Shit. As wonderful as it is to see you, I'd rather be a coward again and take off than tell you why I left."

Ah. An interesting twist. " _Cowardly_? _You_?" Miranda emphasized her words with jerks of the hand that was holding Andrea's. Andrea, whose body kept leaning away from Miranda as if she wanted to run, but whose hand held Miranda's securely. " _Again_?" She didn't believe for a moment the girl was anything less than a lion. She'd never been afraid of anything; she'd never been afraid of Miranda, had she?

"I just… you really need to trust me on this, Miranda. It's not going to change anything if I tell you why I left. It's not-"

"Yes, it will. I will _know_. That will be a change."

"Oh." Andrea took a deep breath and glanced at Miranda, and quickly looked away and exhaled. "Yes, you're right. I know you are, but." A shiver ran through her. "Why can't I ever say no to you?"

"Mmm. Why would you want to, Andrea?" It was well-placed seduction, Miranda knew it by the look on the girl's face.

Andrea blinked and swallowed, and looked at her. "Wow," she finally said. "Never thought I'd be on the receiving end of _that_."

Miranda felt satisfied very briefly. Then the truth of the matter was, of course, staring her in the face. Andrea had said no to her, in effect, hadn't she, when she ditched her in Paris? "You did, though. You said no to me. I confess … it was disappointing." She felt unhappy, remembering. Of all the people to run away from her.

Andrea turned away from her immediately, and tried to pull her hand away, but Miranda held it. Andrea had that look about her, that look of running, and Miranda wanted her answer. When the young woman turned back a moment later, she didn't look at Miranda, but still, Miranda could see her face and the emotions on it. "I never said no to you. I had bad timing and I know I deserted you, which is what you're talking about, I guess, but… You don't know how hard it was for me to leave."

"No, I don't. Why don't you _tell_ me?"

After a moment, Andrea nodded. "It's the right thing to do, isn't it?" she said quietly, as if to herself. She finally looked at Miranda, and her dark eyes seemed injured. "It's a very hard thing for me to say. Especially after all this time."

Miranda looked closely at her. "Have you ever told anyone?" Everyone had a confidante.

Andrea shook her head, no.

It must be a small problem, then, Miranda thought. She squeezed Andrea's hand.

"I can't tell you here in public like this. Maybe we can meet, um… somewhere next week?"

 _Trying to get away again_ , Miranda thought. "No," is what she said. Intrigued, she jerked Andrea's hand and they made their way to Miranda's driver, stationed by the car.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Andrea sat in silence, staring out the tinted window while Miranda looked at her in the darkness. "Lagerfeld designed that for Chanel in 1997." Andrea turned her head. "Your dress. Did you know that Karl Lagerfeld designed it?" Andrea nodded. "Ah, good. You have that timeless quality about you - your face, your hair. You can wear the classics. I have some Dior from the '50s that would be lovely on you." Andrea stared at her intently in the semi-darkness, but didn't comment. When she finally turned to look back out the window, it reminded Miranda unnervingly of the last car they shared, in Paris. This was just how it ended, with Miranda offering something, and Andrea fleeing. "You're not going to run away when the car stops, are you?" she asked lightly. She wanted to hold her hand again, to keep her here.

"No," Andrea said, but she didn't look at her, and her voice was husky, as if laden with emotion.

The townhouse was utterly quiet, when they entered. Andrea commented on it with a perplexed expression. "Is everyone asleep?" It was early yet.

Miranda studied her. It looked like she'd been crying in the car. "If by everyone you mean the girls, they're with their father on vacation. If you mean anyone else, there is no one."

"You're here alone?" Andrea's brow wrinkled. "Doesn't it bother you?"

"No. Am I going to need another drink before the big reveal?"

Andrea grimaced. "Yes, me too. I need rehearsal time."

"You've had long enough, I would think." Miranda climbed the stairs. She would not analyze why she was taking Andrea up here, when the full bar was downstairs. She would not analyze why she wanted Andrea in the landing with its sequestered sitting room, its cluster of furnishings that invited intimacy. The landing, where Andrea had overzealously delivered the book for the first time. The landing, where Stephen, who had a fondness for very young women, had seen her. Stephen, who had been in the midst of another argument with Miranda, who had realized that he was likely to stray yet again. Miranda, who had realized that if he touched Andrea, she would kill him.

"I need rehearsal time for the explanation, not the apology," Andrea said behind her on the stairs. "The apology is simple. I'm sorry I left you without giving a notice. There. Done."

It was as insincere as she'd ever heard the girl. "You were never going to explain?"

"Um, no. Not really.'

Miranda reached the landing, where she had come to the upsetting realization that night more than three years ago that _she_ was the real threat to Andrea's virtue, not Stephen. It had come as a complete shock, wanting the much younger woman with such intense desire. She was taking Andrea to the _landing_ , of all places. Could she be more transparent?

"That does seem cowardly. And I never pegged you for the faint-hearted."

"You didn't know me well," Andrea said quietly.

Miranda whirled around at this, not liking it at all. "Is that true?" She didn't want to believe it. But she'd _not_ known Andrea now for longer than she'd known her. "I thought I knew you very well."

Andrea looked at her with an unfaltering gaze. "I was surprised at the party that you came over to me. I was surprised that you even remembered me," she said.

Miranda took an involuntary step backward and shook her head. "I…" The pain this statement held was unequivocal. She pulled herself together. "I told you I had been following your career."

"Why?"

"Andrea," she choked. Turning to the sitting room, she flung her purse onto a chair and bolted to the bar, where she immediately poured herself a drink.

"I'm sorry," Andrea said from behind her after a moment. "That was rude. I just… I don't want to talk about this, Miranda. You have no idea how badly I don't want to talk about this. I'm going to, for you. But I may not be very nice."

Oh, how she had missed it! The girl's unfaltering candor; the ability to say to Miranda whatever crossed her mind, no matter how difficult. So rare in people who clustered around the editor, polluting the very air with their white lies, ingratiating compliments, half-truths and other fetid drivel spoken because they were too afraid to speak plainly. She had longed for this frankness of Andrea's, this pure oxygen. And the girl was _surprised_ that Miranda remembered her?

"My vodka isn't as good as my scotch. Do you drink scotch?" Miranda's hands were unsteady.

"Tonight, yes."

Miranda turned in relief and gave her the drink. She felt once again like she was back in time, only Andrea looked older and sadder. But she still looked at Miranda with that same something, that same ardent _quality_ , as if Miranda were the only soul on Earth, and therefore the most precious, and the most wicked, and the most beautiful and the most ugly, and the most everything. She felt the connection between them like a gossamer thread. It had always been there, and it hadn't broken, even with time. "You're more beautiful now than you were then," Miranda said. She hadn't meant to say it, but God, she was gorgeous.

"I miss you," Andrea breathed.

If Miranda felt relief before, now she felt drunk from it. She bit down several words that almost spilled from her lips. "Yet you tried to run away. Again," she said lightly.

"You have that effect on me."

"Well, that's a shame. Why couldn't I have that effect on someone else? Irv, for instance, or Stephen or Jason or –"

"Stephen? Why is he still around?" Andrea asked.

"Because as much as the divorce was his idea, he made it slow and painful, and he takes me to court now and then." She shouldn't have mentioned him; it cast a bitter spell on the air. She moved to the sofa and sat, wondering where Andrea would choose to sit. Besides the purse-filled chair, there were two other chairs and a loveseat, all arranged closely enough to warrant easy conversation, no raised voices to carry on a quiet dialogue. Intimate. No reason for Andrea to maneuver around the coffee table and sit beside Miranda on the sofa. Much easier to take one of the lavender chairs alongside it.

"Who's Jason?"

Miranda waved her hand, dismissing him. "A new Elias-Clarke vice president as of last year. Makes my life miserable as often as possible."

Andrea maneuvered around the coffee table and sat beside her on the sofa, turned so that her body was angled to her. "Are you seeing anyone?" she asked.

She was, and she didn't want Andrea to know. It had nothing to do with tonight or this conversation. "Not romantically," she said. "And you?"

Andrea gazed at her, but didn't respond.

Miranda wondered if perhaps she knew she'd just lied. She chose to believe she didn't. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for a response.

"I talk a lot. I need a filter. But I always had to especially bite my tongue around you," Andrea said. "Stuff always tried to slip out. Inappropriate things. I thought it was because I was subconsciously trying to get your attention or something." She sipped her drink. "I apparently still have that same problem. I have to watch what I say."

"Don't you dare. I recall it being rather refreshing - not knowing what would pop out of your mouth." She looked her over. "Of course, you think I don't remember you at all, so that probably surprises you. What did you almost say?"

A tiny smile was on Andrea's face, so small it was barely noticeable.

"Let's try this again, Miss Inappropriate. Are you seeing anyone?"

"I'm seeing several someones." Andrea downed the rest of her drink. She started to get up to go to the mini-bar, but Miranda held her arm.

"Are you seeing anyone?" Miranda asked again.

Andrea looked surprised. "Maybe you know me better than I thought. You can tell when I'm not being entirely truthful, I guess." She furrowed her brow. "You always could tell that, couldn't you? But this was truly inappropriate and a good thing I bit my tongue."

Miranda held her arm and stared at her.

Andrea stared back. "I fucked a girl last weekend because she…"

Miranda sucked in her breath. Her heart raced just from the language, the image. She saw Andrea taking in her reaction. "What? She what?"

"I need another drink."

"You're not a coward. I refuse to believe it."

Andrea smiled at this. "She had your eyes." And she moved to the bar, leaving Miranda stunned on the sofa.

"Oh, see - you're regretting it already, telling me to remove the filter," Andrea said from across the room, after she poured her drink. She was leaning against the bar and sipping, looking sexy and flushed after her disclosure. "Don't be offended by it," she said. "I fuck a lot of people. She just had eyes that reminded me of yours."

"Bring the scotch here," Miranda said. She didn't trust her legs to walk. She didn't like this turn in conversation. True, the part about the girl with the eyes was titillating, but the sleeping around was disturbing. "You fuck a lot of people," she repeated, when Andrea sat beside her. "Pour," she instructed, holding her glass with a trembling hand.

Andrea shrugged. "An exaggeration."

Andrea poured the scotch, holding Miranda's hand steady with her own. This itself, another intimacy in this intimate seating area, went to Miranda's head. But the girl was familiar with people; she fucked them all the time. Not like Miranda, who doled out touches and caresses and fucks in frugal measure. The evening thus far had been an extravagant breach of her typical behavior: she'd held Andrea's hand at the party, held her arm here on the sofa. She hadn't thought about doing either thing, each had just happened, and she'd been so very aware of the girl's skin, of the warmth, of the softness. Of the sensation these touches elicited in her.

Miranda realized that she shouldn't be drinking, she should keep her wits about her, but Andrea was seated so closely, and it had been so long since she'd seen her. Her senses were on overload; she needed to dull them. "You've told me, this evening, Andrea, that you sleep around, you drink a lot, you're a coward, that I didn't know you very well, and that you're surprised I even remember you." She drained her glass. "Tell me why I shouldn't be upset right now as my illusions of the woman I once knew are stripped away."

Andrea sighed. "I'm … I'm still mostly the same person, Miranda. You did know me then, I guess. I was just… I … went through a lot during my last few weeks at _Runway_ , and then afterward, and now I work hard and…"

"And what?"

"I just… work a lot. I enjoy working," she said. Her voice was unconvincing. "It's, you know, fulfilling. Writing." She glanced furtively at Miranda and then let out a sigh. "I think I left part of myself behind in Paris and I never got her back, and so… my life is largely about my work."

"And anonymous sex."

"You make it sound exciting," Andrea said. She smiled dejectedly.

"Tell me about work, then." Work was at least a safe topic. She was still pulsing from the girl with the eyes like hers.

Andrea's face relaxed. "I enjoy it. I-"

"Yes, why do you keep saying that? Enjoy? You don't love it? You're a writer, and you're writing; why are you not loving it?"

Andrea gave her an assessing gaze. "I forgot that about you. That thing you do. You're like this scientist or something…" She shook her head and looked away. "You do this thing. You make this very precise observation, and it's, it's not a throw-away observation, it's something very important about a very minute detail. And you can sum up a person from that tiny thing that you notice." She looked at her again. "It's a gift."

"Hmm. You're the only one who's ever called it _that_."

"I wish I could do it. It would save a lot of time I think, in my job, interviewing people especially. I wish I could do it exactly like you." Andrea leaned against the sofa. She turned to Miranda, her body leaned toward her. "You're extraordinarily observant and yet you hide behind that contemptuous mask so much of the time. People think you don't notice them and then you sting them with a few words that let them know you've noticed everything."

"You wish to be condescending and rude?" Miranda asked.

"But only if I could pull it off with your class. It would come in handy sometimes."

"You have your own weapons."

Andrea, head leaned against the sofa, blinked her very thick lashes at Miranda and then frowned. "What weapons?"

"Distraction, for one. We were discussing why you're unhappy being a journalist. And you've steered us away from that conversation, haven't you?"

"Can't I enjoy talking to you?" Andrea blushed.

Miranda cut her eyes over her. " _Enjoy?_ Like work?"

Andrea lit up. She laughed and leaned in and touched Miranda's arm, caressed it and didn't let go, even when her laughter died and she leaned back, and stared at her with those large eyes. They were coppery in the light from the lamp. "Much more than work."

"Much more?" Flashback: Andrea at the Valentino after-party, by her side, charming the legend himself. She had such natural charisma, such likability, that people were drawn to her; they seemed to know she was guileless; they trusted her smile. It had been _exhilarating_ , having Andrea beside her. Much more than work, indeed. "I see. And why do you _enjoy_ work?" she asked quietly.

Andrea looked at her as if she were truly a wonderful person, and then her eyes glazed over as she thought about the question. "The stories are sometimes hard to write. There have been a few truly horrible things I've had to research and report on. Things no one wants to read but everyone does - the horror stories of the city. And it's been um, tough. I don't know that I can keep it up; you have to have a very thick skin to do this, and I don't know that I can do it, and here I am, going to CNN, and I'm excited, but it's … it's ringing kind of false to my own ears. And I feel foolish because this is what I always wanted." She drank a swallow of scotch, and then another. "I've never told anyone that."

"There are other things you can write. Find something you like."

Andrea looked at her. "I'm a really good journalist."

"You were a really good assistant, but it wasn't a career. You'll be good at whatever you choose, Andrea, because it's who you are. You're driven to succeed."

She shook her head. "I feel like a total loser. Except for my career, which I love but which I hate, my life is a wreck. Everything is wrong." She pulled her hand away and seemed to withdraw entirely.

Miranda scanned her face. "Let me guess. You drink to help you relax because the only place you connect is work and even though the stories tear you apart, you work around the clock, and when you come home it may be midnight, but it's certainly not 5:00, or if it is 5:00, it's a fluke, and in either case, you often cannot turn it off."

Andrea looked at her, looked away and nodded.

"You sleep around trying to find some kind of connection, yet you have no close friends and no significant relationships because you're afraid of intimacy. Because, as you said, you left something behind in Paris."

Andrea's gaze riveted to Miranda.

"These stories are tearing you apart and there's no one to build you back up, no one to hold you after a difficult day and let you cry. No one to tell you that you're special or strong or brave." Miranda watched the girl flush. "You're not the same woman you were. You were clear as a stream," Miranda said. "And now you're this murky pond."

"Cesspool," Andrea said, and put her glass down on the coffee table. She focused her attention on the extensive number of books and bookshelves in the room, letting her eyes wander over their spines.

Miranda observed her. "Are you angry?"

Andrea didn't respond, but her eyes jerked from the books to the painting over the fireplace.

"You're hurt. It's not just the wasteland you're discovering about the city that's sending you to bed with 'a lot of people'. Who hurt you? What happened?"

Andrea remained quiet for a moment. "I don't want to talk about this. I can't tell you. I need to go." She looked at her beseechingly. "You don't want to know, Miranda. I _know_ that you don't want to know."

Miranda frowned. Why wouldn't she want to know about this? They weren't talking about Paris now were they? But this is what the girl had said before. She was confused. "This is about… "

"You," Andrea said, staring at the painting, one of the irregularities of the townhouse – a rustic, almost primitive oil of a woman in a swing. It gave life to the cool, austere aesthetic of the room.

"Me? It can't be about me. You haven't seen me in three years."

"Exactly," Andrea said quietly.

Miranda was astonished. "You miss me," she said softly, recalling what Andrea had said moments before. Not empty words.

Andrea nodded silently. Her gaze was on the painting.

"I did something that hurt you?" She thought back to _Runway_ in the days that Andrea graced it with her presence. She thought about Paris and all that happened that week. "Nigel. Is that what this is about?" Surely not.

Andrea shook her head. "I left you, not _Runway_ ," she said.

Miranda scowled. "Well, yes, I put that together three years ago. Why? Why did you choose that week to leave?"

Andrea smoothed her dress down over her thighs. "It became … overwhelming."

"What did? You're not the type to let things overwhelm you. You handled everything I threw at you and asked for more. Nothing overwhelms you, Andrea."

 


	3. Chapter 3

Andrea flicked her eyes to her, like something was about to pop out of her mouth, then she forcibly looked away and sighed. "Okay. Like pulling a bandage off, right? Just make it quick. But I can't make it quick. Well, I could make it quick, but that would be even more humiliating, I think." She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, she looked at Miranda imploringly. "I need you to believe me when I say that you don't want to know thi-." A look came over her face, as if she'd grasped something that had eluded her, and she swallowed. "No, you're just not going to care," she said quietly. She wrestled with this knowledge for a moment. "So." She picked up the bottle and poured again. "I'm going to need a lot more of this."

"I can assure you that I will care, whatever it is. It's why you left."

Andrea flashed a wobbly smile at her, one that could melt into tears in a second. "I'm going to get very drunk, and I'm going to tell you, and you're going to put me in a taxi and I'll wake up tomorrow and remember nothing. Like any other Saturday morning. Okay?"

"Andrea," she said, and rubbed her temples. It was hard, watching this girl, who could still be playful and light, reveal the darker changes to her, like this drinking. Maybe something could come of this exorcism. Maybe by telling her why she left, Andrea would also tell her why she'd turned into this despondent woman. Maybe she would stop throwing her body to the wolves.

Andrea took Miranda's concern for impatience, and drank her scotch and began her story. "When I first started _Runway_ , that first week, Nigel said to me, 'you're going to become obsessed with her, and when you do, I'll be here with clothes'." She sipped her drink. "And he was right, of course. He knew I would."

Miranda pressed her lips together.

"So I got the clothes because of you. And I knocked myself out every day because of you." She paused, and during that pause, Miranda's gaze went from Andrea's face to her trembling hands, and she realized that three years was a long time for Andrea to miss an employer.

"But even though I have this drive to succeed, like you said, that wasn't it. It wasn't about being the best assistant; it was about doing something to make things better for you. Because you're the editor, and you have to look at everything with a critical eye; I get that. But I know that it's got to affect your entire outlook, right?"

Here, right at the beginning of Andrea's story, is when Miranda remembered another reason Andrea had affected her so. She kept trying to tell herself, over the years, that it had been merely a fancy, like Stephen's fancies - a physical reaction to the girl that had nothing to do with emotion. But Andrea looked beyond the obvious, she'd always seen behind the façade; Miranda had known this from the first day. Andrea saw the woman, not the icon. And for this reason, if nothing else, it couldn't merely be physical. No one looked beyond the façade.

"I mean, can you see a pretty face, if you're looking for blemishes? Can you read a well-written article when you're wired to find errors and mistakes? Can you see anything that's beautiful when you're searching for fault? The girl is too fat. The dress is the wrong shade of red. Testino didn't take enough photos. There goes Nigel's brilliant, $50,000 spread because it doesn't work for this issue. The Yves St. Laurent designers have done another monochromatic winter collection that you have to try to make fresh _again_ this year, and how are you going to do that? Get a different photographer? Different location? Different theme? All because they have this one idea in their heads they can't get beyond?" She huffed at that, apparently remembering Miranda's disappointment. "But it's typically something like the lighting in the photo is too soft. The advertisers are balking at the fur. The covers all look alike. Where are the fresh ideas? Everything about the September issue is mundane. How can it not take a toll on you? How can constant disappointment _not_ make you unhappy?"

Miranda looked at her piercingly. No one had ever even considered what she did and the toll it took on her, and here this girl, this girl who had only worked for her a few months, not even a year… She felt the thread between them, the invisible, almost tangible strand, tugging at her. She'd would have liked to interrupt Andrea to ask how she knew. But she was moved beyond words, and she said nothing; she did, however, set her glass down, because it was idiotic that she had wanted alcohol to dull her sensation. She wouldn't allow scotch to stifle her perception of what Andrea was saying. She pressed her hands together so they wouldn't ball into fists of frustration at the passage of time. She wasn't a person who looked back; she would not look back.

"I wanted to do everything right so that I would be one less…" Andrea swallowed. "Disappointment. That's all I wanted. And look at the outcome." She passed her fingertips over her lips. "Look at the disappointment I became. You said so yourself tonight. I didn't think you'd remember me, because you're so busy… You do more in a day than most people do in a week. But of course you remember me; I'm the disappointment. You were the last person I wanted to fail. I can't tell you how that feels. I didn't want to be part of the noise. I wanted to succeed at this one fucking thing, not for me, but for you." She ran a trembling hand across her face, brushed her hair away. She took a moment to continue.

"But before I became a disappointment to you, I became a disappointment to everyone else." She bit her lip, looked at the ceiling. "I got caught up in work. There was that constant push to try and make things better for you. I learned to anticipate your needs, and I became good at that, and I thought if I could continue doing that, the constant little trifles that slowed you down would end, and you would have a smoother day, less stress, fewer headaches. Fewer disappointments.

"But then, my boyfriend left me because of you. Because of _you_ , specifically, not _Runway_. Miranda Priestly, the woman whose calls I always took. And my friends left me. And my family said I was changing. And I found that I didn't care." She looked at Miranda, and tears shimmered in her eyes.

A surge of guilt went through Miranda, and other things – a fierce hatred of Andrea's boyfriend and friends and even her family for shutting her out and not accepting her growth. And love. Oh God, the girl understood her… but she _left_ her.

"Doing this, thinking I was helping you, was enough to kind of balance the crap of my personal life. And then… Paris. I was elated on the one hand that I got the chance to go, and I was upset on the other hand that Emily, her dream, was shot. But mostly, I was happy, because it meant that I could take care of you, and I knew I could do it better than Emily, not because I'm better than she is, but because I cared more - because she cared about _Runway_ , and I cared about _you_." The shimmer in her eyes gave way as tears fell down her face. "And you see where this is leading, don't you?" Andrea said with a surprising amount of bitterness in her voice. "You see why I said you didn't want to hear it?" She poured another drink.

Miranda stared at her own hands, at her fingers locked tightly together. Everything felt like it was unraveling. She wanted to hold it together. She needed to know what she'd done that had hurt Andrea. It had happened in Paris, then. That week had been a blur of pain even before Andrea left, with the divorce and the threat of being pushed out of her job.

"Paris was the worst thing to happen to me. I didn't know it would be like this defining moment in my life. I guess you don't know those things until afterward. I was prepared to be your shadow and for it to be all about you as usual. I didn't want or need it to be about me. But it changed me. I guess because it _was_ about you. And you… you were so beautiful… There aren't even words, Miranda."

Miranda's heart skipped a beat. And then she realized what this was about. This was a crush, an infatuation, and Andrea had become hurt when Miranda hadn't noticed. Her heart lifted a bit. This was perhaps fixable.

Andrea drank from her glass and stared at the painting once more. "At the Valentino after-party, you were laughing and talking to everyone and you were so _incredible_ … I didn't know you as a celebrity, you remember. I just knew you as Miranda, a woman brilliant and quirky and talented enough to make clothes on a hanger look like a piece of art."

At this, Miranda stared at her. Yes, there was a reason the girl had affected her then, but it was nothing compared to the reason she was affecting her now. There were no façades Andrea couldn't see beyond, were there? She had seen Miranda as a woman before she saw her as an employer or a luminary.

"I knew you were hugely important, of course; I knew you had legions of followers, devoted fans; I knew designers and retailers hung on your every word. I knew you were an icon. But I didn't think of you that way. I saw you at parties and events outside of _Runway_ , but never at anything like fashion week, so your celebrity… it was unbelievable. You were like Madonna or something, so hugely famous and worshipped… and dazzling for the cameras and reporters and fans. Oh my God, the fans… it was so surreal. I was so _proud_ of you.

"But you were better than Madonna or anyone else, because you were more brilliant and charming than anyone else, and more beautiful than I'd ever seen you – so _happy_ , smiling and laughing and lighting up whole rooms as you moved through them… the tents were ablaze….. people were following in your wake, chasing after that intense, beautiful _genius_ with the corrosive tongue and the seductive charm … and it just hit me as I was watching you in front of some reporters; it was like seeing you for the first time; it was like every cliché you have ever heard, and I thought, _Oh my God, I'm in love with her._ "

Miranda, gaping at Andrea through this feast of words, felt a shock. Chills raced across her arms.

"And I kept thinking, no, it's only a crush, Andy, it's only a crush, get it together. You've had a crush on her from day one, just accept it and move on. But I knew I was fooling myself. I've been in love before, and I've had crushes before, and this wasn't… this blew everything out of the water. I was so mesmerized by you… I can still see, very vividly, exactly what you looked like, exactly what you wore. Paris, all of it, is branded on me, even the worst parts, which…" Andrea seemed to come out of her reverie. She frowned. "Christian was there and he kept... He always kept digging, always talking about you; all of our conversations were centered around you. He would pry, and I wouldn't say anything. He'd say something negative and I'd counter with something positive. His nickname for me was Miranda-girl. I fucked him probably just for that, just because he called me Miranda-girl. I fucked him just to be Miranda-anything. But I couldn't get you out of my head. I couldn't stop thinking of you and I needed him to distract me, but he didn't, and then the next morning I found out about him and Jacqueline and that whole mess…"

Miranda's fingers, which had been pressed tightly together, were trembling. The most extraordinary turn of events; she could never have imagined it.

Andrea tried to pour another glass of scotch, but her movements had become sloppy and her hands were shaking. Miranda covered them, took over for her. "Let me," she said quietly, and doing this very small thing for Andrea helped calm her somewhat.

Andrea looked up at her with hooded eyes. She was quite drunk by now. "Am I scaring you yet?" she asked. Her lashes were long and thick and wet.

"Not yet," Miranda said. "I guess it depends on how it ends, doesn't it?"

Andrea looked at her and leaned in very close. Her lips almost touched Miranda's ear. "You know how it ends. I fucked up."

She tried to ignore the jolt the hot breath against her ear sent slamming through her body. "Why did you leave me?"

Andrea drank her scotch. She looked toward the ceiling, trying to remember her placement in the story she was telling. "So… Stephen decided to divorce you… thank God… because he treated you like shit. And you _almost_ cried in front of me and told me he'd served you with divorce papers, and all I wanted to do was to comfort you …

"I asked you what I could do to help, because I wanted to hold you, and listen and let you cry and let you just be yourself, because who else was there in Paris that you could trust enough to be yourself and cry? You were alone." Andrea's hands were shaking badly now. She looked at them and the scotch, sloshing in her glass, and drank it and set the glass down unsteadily. She wrapped her arms around herself as if cold. "I was sure you trusted me and would let me be there for you. I would never betray your confidence; I thought you knew that; I thought you knew you could talk to me, and you almost did - you were worried about the twins, and you were telling me about them losing another father figure, and then you just stopped… You just stopped, abruptly, like you remembered who I was: the _assistant_. As if talking to me would be worse than holding it all in and being alone. You just stopped talking, and you told me to do my job. And that sealed my fate right there, that one sentence from you. It became crystal clear to me. I was nothing. I was a maid, a chauffeur, a _nothing_ to you - an assistant, and a million girls would kill to be that, wouldn't they?" Her voice was spiteful.

A frisson of dread stabbed Miranda's heart; pinpricks of foreboding that Andrea's feelings had turned to something else. "Andrea-"

"A million girls who were thinner than me, and prettier, and more fashionable. Who worshipped you before they walked in _Runway's_ door. I had so much to give but you didn't want it; you didn't want my compassion, you didn't want my help, you didn't even want me to use my brain. You wanted me only to perform the most menial of tasks, and in the end none of it mattered." She stared straight ahead, biting her nails. "I was going to do the professional thing and put in my notice when we got back to New York. I didn't want to dis-" Her voice broke and she shoved her hand over her mouth and swallowed. "I didn't want to _disappoint_ you. After I came back home, I wanted to see you so badly. I was so disappointed in _myself_ that I couldn't visit you; I couldn't apologize because I was too embarrassed and such a loser, because the last thing I wanted was to leave a sour taste in your mouth, and I did, I did." She gave a cry. "I missed you so much. Oh God." Andrea bent and wrapped her arms around her legs and began sobbing.

Miranda felt the last three years come loose and fall away, as if disintegrating. She remembered every moment of that evening when Andrea had sat across from her so compassionately, her large eyes tear- filled and kind, and seeing this from Andrea's perspective caused something in her to tear, like paper, to rip. She touched Andrea's slender back, and the girl felt so slight beneath her hand, so narrow and small. "But you didn't put in a notice," she said.

Andrea jumped up, wobbly in her heels, a calf hitting the coffee table, jarring the glasses. She stood, swaying. Her tear-stained face looked down at Miranda furiously. "No, I didn't." She shook her head, and her sobbing stopped, but tears continued down her face. "Because I found out about Christian and Jacqueline, right? And I knocked myself out trying to warn you. I called you at the hotel. I called you and you hung up on me!" Andrea was so angry she began shouting. "I tried all day to reach you because I couldn't let them trick you; I had to get a warning to you, I had to protect you! I banged on your door at the hotel until you finally came to it and told me to get lost. Because you didn't _need_ me to tell you. _You already knew_ .

"But I didn't know that. So I got to the reception hall earlier than you would believe, waiting for you, pacing the hall, guarding the entrance so that you couldn't get past me, because I had to tell you. And you barely listened! I killed myself to warn you about someone trying to shove you out of your position at _Runway_ , and your fucking response was that you had better not find any _freesias_ in the place, and you dumped your coat and purse on me, because that's what I was – not someone to look out for you or to have a brain or morals or ethics, just some stupid girl to carry your shit around.

"There are so many beautiful, thin girls who want to carry your shit around and do your dumb work and I realized the one thing you didn't want was a smart fat girl who has a fucking brain and a fucking heart to be your assistant. Not that you need one! The whole fucking world is your fucking assistant; anyone will do anything for you!"

Miranda pursed her lips and pressed her fingers together and held herself perfectly still. She let all of this anger - which she had known was under the surface as soon as Andrea had said she fucked a lot of people - she let all of Andrea's anger pass over her in a wave. She listened, intently, and though she heard the girl yelling, she also heard her crying.

Andrea's arms chopped the air. "Why did I think for a moment I was significant because I could get your coffee really hot, or remember that restaurant that you liked, or find the impossible gift for the twins? Anybody can do that. Anybody can get rid of freesias!" Her chest was heaving.

"And then, right before I walked away, you gave me that little talk. You finally addressed the fact that I tried to warn you about Christian and Jacqueline, but you didn't get it. You didn't care. You cared in a very aloof and 'oh you're like me' way as if I had done it to get ahead. I did it for _you_. Not for me. I quit caring about what that job could do for me long before we ever went to Paris. All I cared about was you. And if you thought that about me, that I had tried to protect you in order to further my own career… you didn't know me. You didn't see me. You're _Miranda Priestly_. Why would you?"

Andrea stopped for a minute to take deep breaths, and when she spoke again, she was no longer yelling or crying. She looked defeated.

"I knew that it really didn't matter if I left in the middle of everything. I'm sure my replacement was waiting for you with your nonfat latte as soon as you got back to the office. And to top everything off, you went and did one of your things… You told The Mirror that as an assistant, I was your _greatest disappointment_ , and that they'd be _idiots not to hire me_. It was so big of you, so kind and generous that I was even more ashamed of myself, which should be impossible." She picked up her purse, her entire body seeming to shake with pain. "That's why I walked away in Paris, Miranda. I apologize for not giving a notice. I'm sorry I disappointed you."

 


	4. Chapter 4

Everything had unraveled. The truth was much different than anything she could have imagined, and it seemed to be a tangled, ugly mess. Andrea had loved her and now she hated her. Miranda watched her walking away. "Andrea," she said, expecting her to stop, hoping she'd stop, because she was too shaken to follow her.

She didn't stop. She wove an unsteady path to the landing, and Miranda thought it may be the kinder thing for Andrea if she just let her go, but then she thought about the stairs, and Andrea had consumed so much alcohol that Miranda flew to her and pulled her back. Andrea jerked at her touch. The girl's anger was back; she was livid, bucking and snarling, "Don't touch me."

"No, no, you're not leaving yet," Miranda said, giving Andrea her best no-nonsense tone, pulling Andrea back to the sitting room. "We're not done here. I have questions, and you will answer them."

Andrea glared at her.

"Sit." Miranda pushed her gently toward the sofa and helped her down. Andrea sat clutching her purse and looking at the scotch. She reached for it. "Oh no, you've had quite enough of that. You may have water if you're thirsty."

Andrea looked at her so hatefully that Miranda got them both water from the bar herself, keeping an eye on Andrea the entire time. They drank in silence, Andrea staring her down. "What?" Andrea finally asked.

"You're very angry at me," Miranda murmured. Perhaps anger wasn't the worst thing Andrea could feel. Anger was better, after all, than apathy. At least the girl cared.

Andrea glared. "You don't get it. I've spent all this fucking time telling you the whole fucking story and you don't get it." She knocked the water back as if it were a vodka tonic or a scotch. "I'm not angry at you, I'm angry at me."

"Yes, your diatribe about the freesias sounded like self-loathing." Miranda rolled her eyes.

"No, look." Andrea rubbed her forehead. "Look," she said again, and the anger was gone. She didn't say anything for so long that Miranda thought perhaps she had fainted. Finally, her hand moved from her face, and she both looked and sounded exhausted. "I'm not mad at you. I fucked up. Telling you brought it all up again."

Miranda wanted to say something. She wasn't sure what. Her thoughts were almost as messy as Andrea's emotions.

"I'm angry that I walked away," Andrea said wearily. Her eyes sought out the painting over the fireplace again.

"Because you disappointed me?"

"I'm angry because –" Andy gestured, as if not knowing the words.

"Because you left?" Miranda asked. She leaned back on the sofa and allowed herself to relax a little.

"Well, yeah, because I left, because I miss you, and it's my fault. I'm pissed that I disappointed you. But more than that, I'm pissed for letting myself get close to you. I mean, if ever there was a person out of my league… So, I'm pissed off for needing you, becoming attached. Falling in love."

Miranda was silent for a moment. "Don't you think it's perhaps more of a crush? We worked in close proximity; I'm older and powerful and I was your boss-"

Andrea ran. She was off the sofa and tripping over the coffee table before Miranda could react; when finally Miranda pushed herself forward, Andrea had already fallen and was hauling herself up and lurching ahead. She was stumbling down the stairs before Miranda grabbed her, yanking her back. "No, no, no," she said, and pulled Andrea against her tightly, her heart racing – Andrea had missed a step and was about to go sailing - and the adrenalin rush had her holding the girl with arms like a vise. They were leaning against the wall. She breathed heavily, trying to catch up to the moment and comprehend that they were both okay. When she could think somewhat clearly again, she realized Andrea was trembling violently.

"Sit," Miranda said. "Before we both fall."

Andrea's knees buckled, and she fell rather than sat, but she was safe on the stairs. Miranda sat beside her and tried to control her own shaking. She calmed herself, slowed her breathing, held the girl.

Andrea was still heaving from her run and her emotion, but she drew away from Miranda and fumbled with her purse and pulled out her cell phone.

"What are you doing?"

The girl didn't reply, but she looked to be forming a text to someone. Miranda jerked the phone from her hands. "Who are you texting?"

Andrea didn't speak.

"If you want your phone back, you will answer me."

"A guy who can come pick me up."

Incensed, Miranda threw the phone over the rail. It clattered on the floor in the foyer below. "You're not leaving until we reach some kind of resolution to this."

Andrea, inches from her, in her arms only a moment before, was untouchable. "The resolution was me leaving you in Paris. There's nothing else that needs resolution is there? And this is a crush, anyway, so who fucking cares?" She rose, steadied herself by leaning on the wall. She climbed the stairs. "And you're getting married. Again," she said, over her shoulder as she walked back to the sitting room and poured herself another drink.

Miranda followed her. "Take off your shoes before you kill yourself," she said.

Andrea kept the bottle in her hand and paced, like a caged animal, wired but drunk. She did not remove her shoes. Her movements were sloppy. Her shins bumped a chair; her foot caught on another chair. She made her way to the bar and set the bottle down, and turned her head from Miranda's direction to that of the French doors and the night city. "Why did you lie to me?" Andrea asked. "You said you weren't romantically involved."

Miranda shook her head. "It didn't seem to have anything to do with this."

Andrea stared at her from where she leaned against the bar. "Then there would be no need for a lie, would there?"

She was still shaky from the stairs but walked to her. "Pour for me."

Andrea poured and Miranda took the drink and stood immediately before Andrea, blocking any attempts at her leaving.

"I told you what you wanted to know." The hostility on her face didn't hide her hurt. "Why won't you let me leave? Are you just wanting to prolong this? My pain?"

Miranda didn't answer. She was busy trying to figure out how to put this back on track, to turn back time so that Andrea no longer hated her but loved her.

"Are you getting off on it?" Andrea's bitterness was plain, even through her slurred words. "I bet you are. You don't care, so let me go. Call a taxi for me."

"We need to talk."

"I've been talking. I've said everything I have to say, and you're saying nothing. What about those questions you have? Why don't you ask them while I can still speak coherently?" She knocked back her scotch. When it was down, she reached for the bottle and uncapped it for another.

"You're going to run away, one way or another. I guess you are a coward after all," Miranda said, referring to the massive amounts of alcohol that Andrea was drinking. Never mind that she was doing the same; she was at least drinking on a much slower basis and holding hers better.

Andrea put the bottle back and set her glass beside it. She drew herself up to her full height. "This isn't running away," she said, indicating the alcohol. She took Miranda's glass from her hand and drank what was left of it, and set it down, and something about that act seemed electrifying to Miranda. It also seemed to foreshadow the coming events, because she wasn't at all surprised when Andrea began pushing her toward the wall. "It's numbing. Because you're obviously going to keep jabbing the wound and picking at it. I've told you everything, and you want to discuss it? What is there to discuss? I told you why I quit." One of Andrea's hands was against her shoulder, the other against her arm, pressing her backward against the wall. "And you're engaged to Number Four. I hope he treats you nice. I hope he satisfies you in bed."

They were both drunk. All was fair, right? "Do it," Miranda said, with slight dread and a great deal of something else. Every fiber of her being felt alive. Her body certainly felt alive; it felt like it was straining toward Andrea. "Whatever it is you want to do, do it. Slap me, hit me, kiss me. Do it."

The anger left Andrea's face in an instant, and was replaced by desire. The girl leaned in close, bent her head to Miranda's ear. "What do you think it will be? What am I'm going to do, Miranda?" she asked.

She tried to control her body, which reacted strongly just to Andrea's nearness. Andrea pressing her to the wall, speaking into her ear, was over-stimulating. "Run away again?" Andrea's lips touched her neck, and Miranda managed not to moan, but her body shook. "Pass out in thirty seconds? Regret this in the morning?" Her hips involuntarily jerked, her body arched when Andrea's tongue flicked out, when she began pressing soft, wet kisses to her neck. She shuddered. "Fuck another girl with eyes like mine?" she asked caustically.

Andrea kissed her way up to her ear. "I fucked her because I wanted to fuck you."

"After all this time? Are you sure you don't want to hit me instead? You're certainly angry enough." Miranda closed her eyes. "Even though you have me pinned to the wall like a butterfly, like I'm about to be another one of those people in that long line of people that you fuck. So maybe it's the same thing." Miranda opened her eyes again, and Andrea was staring into them. "Maybe self-flagellation has grown tiresome and you want to correct the problem at the root. But that's what you said, isn't it? You want to fuck me." Not kiss, not hold, not make love to. Fuck.

"Miranda," Andrea chastised softly.

They gazed at each other, and Miranda's longing was so intense, her frustration such that she felt like sobbing. Andrea, however, saved her from the humiliation. "I know you want me," the girl continued quietly. "I don't know why. What is it? What is this for you?"

Miranda looked at her blankly, processing Andrea's words. Whatever she felt wasn't so easy to classify. There was nothing simple about what this was. It was that moment, three years ago, wanting to push her down and push her legs apart and push inside; it was now, wanting to make Andrea say the words: _I love you_.

"Are you attracted to me?"

Miranda closed her eyes again. "I'm not sure I'd use that word," she said finally.

"Oh. Oh, I see." Andrea removed her hands from Miranda's arm, from her shoulder, and she was no longer pinning her to the wall; she was cupping her breasts. "Maybe that's too strong of a word," she said, staring at Miranda's face, gauging her reaction, surely noticing the jerk of Miranda's body, of her hips, surely hearing the groan that escaped Miranda's mouth. "Maybe," she said, leaning in to kiss Miranda's neck again, "it's curiosity." She licked and kissed her way over Miranda's neck, up to her ear, where she breathed, "Maybe it's novelty of something different after so many years of goddamn dicks." Her thighs pressed against Miranda's. "Maybe it's vanity, because you know I worship you." She kissed the bridge of her nose, her forehead, her cheekbones. "Maybe you're having flashbacks and you want to see me serve you again. You know I would work very hard to make certain you were sexually satisfied." She kissed the corner of her mouth.

Miranda grabbed Andrea's head and held it and captured her lips while they were close, right at her mouth. The kiss sent shockwaves through her body, which was already drenched, already arching to Andrea. Attracted? This was more of a meltdown. Andrea's lips were erotically soft, and when she opened her mouth, her tongue sent Miranda into turmoil.

Perhaps for all her incessant, resolute blather about love, Andrea was herself merely attracted. She did fuck a lot of people, after all. And Miranda was certainly old enough to be her mother. But just as this thought crossed Miranda's mind, Andrea whimpered, and Miranda felt the girl's body tense, then convulse against hers, and no, this was not mere attraction for either of them. She pulled back, leaned against the wall and stroked Andrea's flushed face tenderly. "It's none of those things," she said, after Andrea's closed eyes opened. "Care to guess again, Miss Inappropriate?"

Andrea gave her another look that spoke volumes. "I think you're unhappy," she said quietly. "And you're willing to try this. Anything."

Miranda swallowed. "So the word you wanted to say was desperate." She meant to put some zing behind it, make it a cutting remark, but she couldn't. What a low blow. _Desperate._

"Yes."

"Is it so hard for you to believe that I could care for you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Andrea had begun placing kisses on her face. They did feel worshipful, like Andrea had said. "Because you have Number Four to care for. And if you wanted me, all you ever had to do was snap your fingers."

"And how was I supposed to know that?" she asked, breathless. "You left me three years ago. Was I supposed to send Roy to fetch you? Was I supposed to drag you back?"

"Yes," Andrea whispered, and kissed her on the lips again.

Miranda felt weak-kneed at the kiss. "This isn't desperation," she finally said.

"Are you going to tell me what it _is_ , then?" Andrea said, kissing her lips, over and over, gently, little almost-pecks, but they lingered longer than pecks, and they were sensually soft. "Is it ennui? Am I your ennui relief?" Her lips formed a smile on Miranda's mouth. She was smiling at herself, and so, so drunk.

"Maybe," Miranda said, trying to match her humor. "It's scotch." She kissed Andrea's full bottom lip, pulled it into her mouth. "Maybe we're drunk, hmm?" And realized in only a moment that her humor didn't play well with a drunken Andrea, who stepped back abruptly.

Miranda learned right away that when Andrea was truly hurt, she was speechless. For the girl didn't say anything, just shook her head and looked at Miranda and shook it again, appearing more than shocked. Devastated.

"Andrea," Miranda said at once. "Don't... You mustn't attempt the stairs. We need to save discussions until we're sober. We've both been drinking too much; you can hardly stand, much less walk…"

Andrea had turned and was walking slowly to the stairs. Miranda grabbed her hand. "Wait. Stay with me. Come, let's go to bed."

Andrea didn't look at her. Her heavy eyelids were hardly open. Miranda decided on the guest bedroom on this level, and she steered Andrea in that direction. She needed to bring the girl a change of clothes and water and probably aspirin. "Andrea," she said, and she was suddenly quite tired herself. How had this escalated? Why had she let her drink so much? "You must understand that however you perceived that, it wasn't how it was meant." She pushed Andrea inside the room and toward the bed, where she helped her sit. She sat with her for a moment, put her arm around her and tried to get her to look at her, but Andrea wouldn't, nor would she speak.

Miranda knelt on the floor and removed Andrea's shoes. "You're not to leave tonight, no matter how angry you become. I have some appointments tomorrow morning. I'll leave instructions downstairs on the alarm and you can leave then if you must. I'd rather you stay and let's sort this out. Look at me, Andrea." She sat on the bed again and tilted Andrea's face, but the girl wouldn't meet her gaze.

"There are things you don't know; things I need to tell you, but they're too important for tonight, because you're too drunk to comprehend them." Andrea's eyes dragged up to her face. She didn't look Miranda in the eye, but it was something. "Don't leave, please," she said quietly, and kissed Andrea's lips very gently. "I'll be close by if you need me. Look at me."

Andrea finally did.

"I love you," Miranda said.

"Maybe you're just drunk," Andrea replied, and walked to the bathroom and slammed the door.

Miranda supposed she deserved that, but it wounded her so badly that she couldn't move for a moment.

 


	5. Chapter 5

She sat in the sitting room for a while, staring blankly. Andrea had given her a lot to think about, and most of it she didn't want to think about. She wasn't one who stayed in her head a lot; she was a woman of action and she set her course and that was that, but Andrea was correct about the unhappiness. There was no point in it. She had formed relationships as if she were forming business partnerships, with little thought to love and passion, and certainly no thought for the sexual thrill that Andrea sparked. Relationships were formed with thought toward alliances and alignments, interests and connections, cooperation and the fulfillment of mutual goals. There was no _reason_ for her to marry William. And if his involvement in her life meant that Andrea would leave her again, then William must be the one to go.

When she came to this realization, she checked on Andrea, who was still in the bathroom, behind closed doors, and went upstairs to prepare for bed. But she couldn't go to bed with the possibility of Andrea trying to leave in the middle of the night. Until the girl was sober, she shouldn't try the stairs. So Miranda donned something comfortable and removed her lipstick and was about to remove her remaining makeup when she realized how old she appeared without it, and she didn't want Andrea to see her like that. She'd seen her without makeup once, but … not now. Miranda needed everything on her side now, didn't she? After the way the evening had gone, her ill-chosen words. She went downstairs again with clothes for Andrea, and water and aspirin, but now the bedroom door was closed, so she set everything down outside it in hopes that it would be found if needed, and she prepared a makeshift bed for herself on the sofa where they had sat, so that she could hear Andrea if she tried the stairs, and she stared at the ceiling for a long time even though she was exhausted.

Miranda didn't realize she had fallen asleep until she woke at her usual time. Andrea's face was pressed into her hands, which were cold. The girl was kneeling on the floor, naked, with a sheet wrapped loosely around her. Her hair was damp. She seemed to be asleep. Miranda gently extracted her hands from beneath Andrea's cheeks and pulled her hair away from her face, touched her back. She was freezing. "Andrea," she said softly.

"Hey," she said, not moving.

"What are you doing? You're freezing."

"I love you," Andrea said. "You need to go to bed."

Miranda inhaled. She _loved_ her; this day was already better than the previous. "What are you doing?"

"I can't sleep. Well," she sighed, her voice somewhat muffled in the sofa. "I blacked out in the bathroom earlier after all the alcohol decided to exit my body. But I've been awake a while. And it's going on 5 and you need to go to bed."

Miranda rubbed her own face. "Where are your clothes?"

"Took a shower, nothing to wear but the dress and I think I may have thrown up on it. Underwear is soaked because you're stupidly sexy. No clothes. Your clever scheme to trap me here has worked."

Miranda smiled. "I left you an outfit by your door. And water, and aspirin, which I assume you didn't find."

"Huh."

"Although you'll need something warmer. I imagine I have a few things I can dress you in."

Andrea's eyes remained closed. "Are any of them comfortable?"

"Look at me."

Andrea tilted her face so that it was no longer buried in the sofa and opened one eye. She angled her chin so she could see Miranda. She was grinning.

"How do you feel?"

"Well, I have a pounding headache, but you know, kneeling at the altar of La Priestly is so much more divine than kneeling at the altar of La Toilet that I cannot complain." Her grin widened.

Miranda touched her face and leaned in and kissed her forehead. "I didn't handle things very well last night."

Andrea furrowed her brow. "Um, I remember _screaming_ at you, so no wonder. I can't believe I did that. I'm so sorry."

Miranda half smiled. "You don't remember much, then?"

Andrea's eyes closed. "I remember kissing you. Oh my God. That was amazing." She frowned again. "Everything else was a mess, though, wasn't it? I talked too much."

Miranda's hand tangled in her hair. "Not too much, no." She sighed. "I don't know how it is that you babble incessantly, and by your own admission need a filter for your mouth, but everything you say affects me exactly as you intend. Yet I choose my words very carefully and they always seem to hit you wrong." She touched her face again. She was exhausted, but exhilarated by this calm, sober, _clear_ Andrea. "I upset you several times last night."

Andrea blinked. "Well the worst part's over, isn't it? I told you, and you didn't kick me out, and you didn't laugh or anything, and I survived it. Somehow. Alcohol. And I got a kiss out of it somehow. Alcohol." She looked at her closely. "Um, you _didn't_ laugh, did you?" And though she was speaking flippantly, her eyes seemed worried.

"No," Miranda said. "Come." She rose and pulled Andrea's hand and led her upstairs to her bedroom, where Andrea stopped short as Miranda went on toward the bathroom.

Miranda turned and looked at her, and good God, she was barely wrapped in that white sheet. With her long tangled hair and alabaster skin, she looked like some sort of goddess.

Andrea raised her eyebrows. "I'm not saying anything. I talked enough last night, didn't I? I'm keeping my mouth shut and letting you lead the way," she said. Her eyes were merry. "Whether that be to your closet or your bed… Decisions, decisions." She smiled. "But you know that kiss was _hot_. And we were _drunk_. So I'm thinking it'll be unbelievable if we kissed while, you know, we're _sober_."

"It was going to be my bathroom; you need aspirin," Miranda said absently. "And we kissed more than once, so I'm not sure which one you think was especially _hot_." The sheet around Andrea was open a bit at the thigh. She stared at the pale skin of her legs, let her eyes travel up to the swell of breasts, the flushed cheeks, the tousled hair.

"What is that _look_ on your face?" Andrea seemed self-conscious suddenly. She looked down at her body. "What are you thinking?"

Miranda was thinking - Halston: 1973, Valentino: 1967, Marchesa: last Spring. She was thinking of how stunning Andrea looked, in this light, in that sheet, with her pale skin and dark hair. She was thinking of a _Runway_ cover, of a shoot that could work perhaps for a Spring or Summer edition, not with togas, exactly, because that whim had flashed and was gone, but a shoot with a pale-skinned beauty, with minimal makeup and minimal, natural clothing, standing in a doorway – mimicking, almost, the _French_ _Runway_ edition from Spring 2004 that Miranda had always favored, mimicking, almost, Andrea standing in her bedroom.

She was thinking of how much time she'd spent working, and how much time she'd spent with women, and how she'd never noticed what gorgeous, fragile creatures they were. She was thinking of Andrea's astute observation: _'How can you see what's beautiful when you're searching for fault?'_

She was thinking of Andrea's vision of her, the words Andrea candidly uttered last night - that beautiful spread of words that could have been wasted on any of the people that the girl slept with - how she had bestowed them on Miranda like gifts, describing her more exquisitely than anyone ever had. _The tents were ablaze._

She was thinking that Andrea was born to be a writer, but perhaps not a journalist, if being a journalist was causing such unhappiness. She was thinking that Andrea may prefer to write for _Harper's_ or _The New Yorker_ or _The Atlantic_ , or anywhere that kept her away from the cruel streets and drinking to stay sane. Miranda was thinking of her own way with words, and how it wasn't beautiful, but it was powerful, and she was thinking that she could get Andrea away from CNN today and have her anywhere she wanted to be tomorrow.

She was thinking about the weekend, stretched out before her, and the silence in the house, which had evaporated. She was thinking about the young woman in her bedroom, the one who wanted to run yet hadn't let go of her hand, who couldn't escape her, no matter how many years she put between them, or how many people she slept with, or how loudly she yelled in anger.

She was thinking about time, and love, and the choices they both had made. She was thinking about Andrea, who had tried to stop loving her but couldn't. Who had tried to hate her, but couldn't. She was thinking about the future, and how it had changed before her eyes last night, how it was changing before her eyes this very minute.

"Do I look fat?" Andrea asked, appearing dramatically horrified. "I'm a four! I've never had anyone complain about my size except you prissy people at _Runway_ , I'll have you know. I get hit-on all the time, so I must be doing something right." She huffed in mock indignation.

"I've fallen in love with you," Miranda said.

Andrea's animated face stilled.

They stared at each other, and the thread between them, which had been apparent from that very first day with the exchange of a look, was clearly many threads - a cord, a cable, a chain, even. Something that couldn't be snipped off mistakenly, or shorn in anger or despair, because they hadn't formed it; it had always been there. Oh, but they had added to it, hadn't they? Miranda felt the ripple; she felt it tugging at her.

"Um, just now?"

"No," Miranda said.

Andrea smiled and bit her lip. "Last night?"

"No," Miranda said.

"That means," Andrea said, and tears touched her eyes. "That means…"

Miranda took her in her arms and kissed her, and it was a joy to find that Andrea was correct: this sober kissing was _unbelievable_. It felt inevitable - both thrilling and slightly démodé. She'd had more than three years to grow accustomed to the shock of lusting for someone so young, and now it didn't feel completely immoral or especially vile to desire this twenty-six year-old as it had to desire the twenty-three year-old. Instead, it felt intensely pleasurable, somewhat scandalous, and entirely too good to be wrong.

Andrea kissed her back tenderly and unguardedly, as if she were talking to her again. As if she were telling her all of those things about loving her and how beautiful she was and how brilliant and quirky, and how sorry she was that her job was stressful, and how she wished she could make it better. But mostly, she seemed to tell her about how she looked in Paris, at the Valentino after-party, taking light from one tent to the next, and despite the state of Andrea's undress, Miranda was the first to cry out from an orgasm, Andrea hovering over her, still somehow wrapped in that sheet.

After, Andrea gently helped her out of her clothing and helped her to another orgasm, and looked up at her from between her legs, but the look on her moist face wasn't gentle at all, it was piercing and predatory and demanding, and Miranda pulled her up, until Andrea was lying on top of her, her sheet tied at her breasts and open like a cape around her. Andrea began kissing her so deeply and touching her so possessively that Miranda came again, almost immediately, and she realized, wrapping her legs around the girl's torso, that she hadn't relished sex like this in her life. "You're gifted at this," she gasped. "Is it because you fuck a lot of people?"

"Hmm. I think I'm gifted at _you_."

Miranda touched her face, traced her fingernail down its contour. "You read me well, most of the time. You completely misinterpreted Paris, however."

Andrea frowned. "Really? _'Do your job.'_ That's hard to misinterpret."

"I needed you to handle things, Andrea. You knew that, even in your love stupor."

Andrea seemed only mildly offended at Miranda's phrasing. A look crossed her face, a question. "Why-?" But she bit the question back, shook her head. It still hurt her, whatever it was - it was apparent on her face.

"Say it," Miranda said.

Andrea sat back on her heels, tucked the covers around Miranda. She was still between her legs. Miranda pressed her thighs to Andrea's sides, urging her to speak. Andrea shook her head again. She blinked away tears.

Miranda sighed. "If it's not about my supposed rejection of your _imaginary_ offer of physical comfort," she stared at her hard. Andrea looked pensive. "It's about you trying to save me from Irv and Jacqueline and one of those people that you fucked, isn't it?" It came out much colder than she intended.

Andrea looked away, but it was plain that this was it. She nodded, obviously trying to get her emotions in check.

"You were so angry last night, so focused on your _role_ in my life then, how you were my _assistant._ Andrea…" She pressed her lips together, thought her words through, because she didn't have a good record with the girl, did she? "You really had no idea. Why this? Why are you not upset over the Harry Potter book? The flight I needed from Miami when the hurricane hit? Why this?"

Andrea cleared her throat. "I didn't do it as your assistant," she said. "It wasn't a task you had given me."

She was still very young. "It's as you said last night: you did it _all_ for _me_ , not _Runway_ , not for yourself, not for the promise of what I would give you later; I knew that. It was obvious, because you were clear as a stream, and I could see right into you. Whether or not it's something I requested or you anticipated… You're so caught up on labeling us. You were my assistant. Things were as they were. Let's move beyond that."

Andrea took her hands and held them in her own. She nodded, looking down, feeling, no doubt, reprimanded.

Miranda sighed. "Like you telling me why you left - there is a quick way to say this, which is somewhat humiliating, and a more lengthy explanation. There was another woman, once. A woman very much like you. She even resembled you, though her looks were merely…perky and pretty, not beautiful. She was a go-getter, had been with Elias-Clarke for only a few months, and I wanted her at _Runway_. She was too trendy and chic to be elsewhere."

Andrea shifted. She put her arms around Miranda's knees, which were still cradling her.

"She, like Emily, was an immigrant. Both came here to work for me. Did you know that? Little Emily saved all her money to leave her family behind so she could be my assistant, and two years ago, I rewarded her very nicely for that. But Jacqueline…"

Andrea gasped.

Miranda looked at her. "Oh yes, Jacqueline Follet. Whereas Emily came to New York with the express purpose of becoming my assistant and told me so up front, which is why I hired her, Jacqueline rather deliberately pretended it was all an accident, that she'd left France to make it big in New York, and she happened upon Elias-Clarke, and then stumbled upon me. Like you stumbled upon me."

Andrea shook her head. Denying she was anything like Jacqueline. Well, of course, their similarities were superficial.

"Jacqueline was in merchandising, ill-suited for it, but it was all that was available when I brought her to _Runway_ , and she worked like a dog for it, twelve hour days on the weekends, fifteen and even twenty sometimes during the week. I was concerned about her. I would find myself checking in on her. I was, I think, a much more caring person back then. I must have been; my assistants were devoted to me; they never left. They loved me, Andrea. I had lunch with them, had them over for dinner in my home. Can you imagine?"

Miranda expected Andrea to be shocked, but the girl didn't look surprised at all. She, instead, looked sad that a younger, more trusting and caring Miranda had experienced something so painful that these qualities had been snuffed out of her like little lights.

"One night I stopped to check in on Jacqueline; I was drawn to her, as I was drawn to you. It was just the two of us, and she kissed me. I was…floored. And completely taken by it, by her, by that one kiss. She had me with it."

Andrea began looking at her warily now, wondering what lay ahead. But she said not a word, just looked at her as she always had when Miranda was imparting something of importance – like it was the two of them in a bubble, and Miranda was the only person in the world.

"I was married at the time, but it didn't stop me from having an affair. And then Jacqueline began making demands; they didn't sound like demands. I'm so thankful, Andrea, that you make yourself clear. Jacqueline constantly had me guessing. A very passive aggressive girl, unwilling to state what she wanted outright, but rather go behind, sneak around to it. Ultimately, she blackmailed me. She had videos of us together. I didn't know they existed. I suppose she hid a camera away in her bedroom. I didn't care what people thought of me, but I loved my husband, and I loved my job, so I made choices I didn't think I was capable of making. I protected those two things that I loved, and let Jacqueline have what she wanted. And thus, she went from merchandising to Editor in Chief at French _Runway_ so quickly it would make your head spin. Because of my profound lack of judgment in becoming involved with her." She looked at the pale skin of Andrea's neck, her slender shoulders.

"Miranda, I'm so sorry-"

"This is …" Miranda tried to remember. "I don't know, the fourth? The fourth time she's tried to ruin me. I can't remember, they all run together, she always comes back for more, and she will again. She won't be happy where she is, and her partnership with James Holt won't last because James buckles under pressure, and Jacqueline keeps him in the fire at all times. I'm shocked they've lasted this long. I fully expect her to round on me any day now. It's time again."

There was a heavy silence.

Miranda said after a minute, "Freesias were Jacqueline's favorite flower. I bought them for her in abundance when I thought she loved me. I'm sure had Emily accompanied me to Paris, she would have asked for there to be no freesias. Anyone can get rid of freesias, as you said. But you…" Miranda swallowed. "I knew that you would make absolutely certain there were no freesias. Even if you didn't know why you needed to do this, you would do it. And I would feel entirely safe. You always protected me, even if you didn't know what you were protecting me from."

"Miranda-"

She cut her off with a look. "Some things that seem trivial are not. Some tasks that seem menial are the most important tasks of all. When I told you to handle the freesias, I was asking you to save me."

There was another silence. Andrea looked pained. Finally, Andrea met her eyes and said, "You're right, I misinterpreted things. All I saw was what I didn't have. I knew it when I came back and you were… nowhere. You were everywhere before, and I came back and everything was empty." She squeezed Miranda's hands and bent and kissed her gently on the lips. "It's hard for me to look ahead; I'm not a forward thinker like you, anyway. You're going to have to be patient. I dwell on things." She sat back on her heels again. "My life for the past three years has been all about me leaving you. Now I'm in your bed. I'm trying to process."

"You're young; I'm sure it will only take a few more minutes." Miranda smiled hopefully, which caused the girl to grin. She took hold of the sheet at Andrea's breasts and began untying it. "And now that you're enlightened," she said. "We'll do the things that _I_ wish to do. Hmm?"

Andrea chuckled. "As if having a couple of orgasms bright and early isn't a great way to start the day."

"It's not bad," Miranda said, struggling with the knot. "But it could use some improvement. Less talking, for instance." Success. The sheet pulled away in her hands and she tossed it aside, and _this_ was how she wanted to start the day: doing the things she'd wanted to do for years.

Andrea allowed Miranda to flip her over, push her down, push her legs apart, and push her fingers inside. That was first, before anything else. That was while she stared at Andrea, silently staring back up at her. The girl grimaced when Miranda was less than careful entering her, but it was difficult to show restraint when Andrea was so _wet_ , when she'd waited so long for this. Studying her face, Miranda added another finger, pumped them, in and out, and then they found a rhythm, and as they gazed at each other, everything changed. Andrea rising to meet her as she pushed into her over and over, the girl's expressive eyes, her teeth biting her lips, the moans coming from her mouth, and then her head turning to the side, her fingers gripping the sheets, her thrusts becoming wilder, and looking up at Miranda and saying her name in that voice before closing her eyes and bucking and rippling in orgasm.

It took Miranda as long to come down from it as it did Andrea. She completely understood, now, the possessive expression on Andrea's face when she had been kneeling between Miranda's legs, the flicker of something predatory. She looked at Andrea's breasts then, and took one in her mouth, and felt the girl leap beneath her.

"Oh," she cried, putting her hand on the back of Miranda's head and arching towards her. "Miranda." Her body strained upward for contact, her breath came in gasps, and she whimpered Miranda's name over and over.

This was something entirely different. It wasn't anything a man had ever stirred in her, and Jacqueline, for all of the feelings she had aroused in Miranda, had never responded to her like this, had never whined her name like Andrea was doing now, had never elicited such overpowering desire. It was that thread, Miranda thought, that chain. She slid her hand down to Andrea's hip, bit down on her nipple, and felt the girl go off like a rocket beneath her. They kissed for a long time afterward, until Miranda impatiently slid between Andrea's thighs and began loving ministrations with her tongue.

It was some time later, she had her palm on Andrea's belly and her lips at the juncture between hip and thigh, trying to keep her mouth from the extremely sensitive areas, because Andrea had just come down from an orgasm. "Do you think you'll want variety?" Miranda asked. "Will you _miss_ fucking a lot of people if I ask you not to?"

She was disconcerted when Andrea didn't reply immediately. She rested her head on the girl's thigh. "Why am I playing nice? Surely you don't expect it of me. I won't ask, Andrea. No one else is to touch you. No texting friends to pick you up. No dates, no fucking strangers, no one else. I will provide whatever you need, whether it's a chauffeur or a date or an orgasm. Is that clear?"

Andrea pushed Miranda's head down between her legs and she came abruptly, powerfully once Miranda's tongue touched her.

"Oh God," Andrea panted.

Miranda looked up at her. "Was that an answer?"

Andrea smiled shakily. "You're unbelievable," she said quietly. "You're better than my fantasies of you, which isn't possible." She held out her hand. "Come up here. Yes, it's clear, Your Eminence."

Miranda stole up Andrea's body and held her down and whispered "Fantasies?" in her ear, and then kissed her deeply. Andrea's legs wrapped around her and she rocked into another mini orgasm, an aftershock.

The sheet, which Andrea had wrapped around her earlier like a toga, was now brought up by the girl, who was shivering beneath her, and unfurled, and as it began settling over them like a tent, Andrea's eyes shone, "there you go, lighting tents again," she whispered, and the tears Miranda had kept at bay sprung to her eyes, shimmering until they finally trickled down.

She released emotions that were new as well as those she'd held for so long – things like wasted time, mistrust, Jacqueline's abuse, Andrea leaving her in Paris, Andrea having an orgasm, Andrea yelling at her, Andrea telling her she was in love with her.

Miranda quietly cried for things she thought she'd long forgotten, like how she'd told Andrea she was fat, things she'd forgiven of herself and others, like her harshness with her assistants and their mistakes, and for things she knew she would do that would cause pain and conflict in this new relationship. Miranda cried because she was tired, she cried because she was far older than this young woman, and she cried because she was helplessly in love with her. Andrea held her, like she'd wanted to for three years.

They slept, Miranda pressing down on her, so that she couldn't run away.

/end


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